The warehouse district looked exactly the way I remembered it in my past life.
Well, I guess there were a few less zombies rats milling around, but give them time, I was sure that they would show up when they wanted to.
The district was quiet and creepy in that industrial type way. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions because no one wanted to know the answers.
I stepped out of the third taxi three blocks away, paid cash, and waited until the taillights disappeared around the corner before I started walking.
The first taxi had dropped me off near a convenience store on the other side of the district. The second one brought me closer, but not close enough to matter. The third one took me past my target, but it was better to do it that way, just in case I was being followed.
No one would trace this back to the mansion. No one would connect me to anything.
I pulled my hood up and kept my head down, moving through the shadows between streetlights.
The air smelled like diesel and rust. A few warehouses had lights on, but most were dark. This wasn't the kind of neighborhood where people worked late unless they were doing something they didn't want seen.
And I was loving it.
The warehouse I wanted was at the end of the block—a squat, gray building with no windows and a single loading dock. It looked forgettable, the kind of place you'd drive past without noticing, but I was pretty sure that that was what the leader of the most feared Triad in the world was counting on.
After all, the only reason why I took a second look at it was because I knew what was inside.
In my past life, people had killed each other over rumors of this place. Entire groups had torn themselves apart trying to find it. And here it was, sitting in plain sight, waiting.
I stopped at the corner and studied the building.
Security cameras were mounted at each corner, angled to cover the entrances.
There were two guards patrolled the perimeter—one near the front, one near the loading dock. They moved in a predictable pattern, circling the building every fifteen minutes. The loading dock had a single overhead light, but the rest of the area was dark.
I checked the time. 2:47 a.m.
The guards would switch positions in three minutes.
I waited.
The guard near the loading dock turned the corner, disappearing toward the front of the building. The other one followed a few seconds later, their voices fading as they moved to the far side.
I crossed the street.
The loading dock door wasn't locked—just latched. I slid the bolt free, pulled the door open just wide enough to slip through, and stepped inside.
The warehouse was dark, but my eyes adjusted quickly. Rows of metal shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with crates and equipment. The air smelled like gun oil and concrete.
I walked down the first aisle, scanning the labels on the crates.
Rifles. Pistols. Ammunition. Explosives.
Military-grade equipment, the kind that didn't end up in civilian hands unless someone was very well-connected or very good at stealing.
I kept walking as my fingers trailed over the wooden crates.
Each one held more weapons than a survivor could dream of, especially in a country where owning weapons was illegal.
I move to where there was a open crate with grenades stacked in neat rows, and armored vests hanging on racks just behind them. There was even boxes of ammunition so heavy it would take three men to lift.
I stopped in the middle of the warehouse and looked around.
Even I had to pause and marvel at the sight.
This wasn't just a stockpile. This was an arsenal that would allow a country to start a war... or end one.
In my past life, people would have killed for a fraction of this. Hell, they had killed for less. And here it was, sitting in a warehouse in the middle of the city, waiting for someone to take it.
And so I did.
I walked to the nearest crate, placed my hand on the wood, and let it disappear into my storage space.
Then the next one.
And the next.
Rifles. Guns. Shotguns. Sniper rifles. Submachine guns. I didn't bother reading the labels. I wasn't going to let so much as a bullet left in this place when I was done.
But I wanted to take my time and enjoy the moment. I wasn't scared of getting caught, and there was something... sweet... about getting all this and not having to share 80% of it with ungrateful people.
Ammunition disappeared by the pallet. Grenades vanished in stacks. I found a crate of flashbangs and took those too. Another crate full of night-vision goggles. Tactical vests. Helmets. Gas masks.
I moved through the aisles methodically, touching each crate and watching it vanish. The warehouse emptied quickly—faster than I'd expected. My storage space had no weight limit, no size restriction. It just held things, endlessly, waiting for me to pull them back out.
I found a section of explosives near the back—C4, detonators, timers. I took all of it.
Then I found the heavy weapons.
Missile launchers. Grenade launchers. Anti-material rifles.
I paused for half a second, staring at a crate labeled RPG-7.
Then I took that too.
By the time I reached the end of the warehouse, the shelves were empty. The racks were bare. Even the smaller items—knives, tactical lights, spare magazines—were gone.
I stood in the middle of the empty space, listening to the silence.
The entire building had been stripped clean.
No evidence. No trace. Just empty shelves and concrete floors.
I walked back toward the loading dock, my footsteps echoing in the hollow space.
At the door, I stopped and looked back.
The warehouse was a shell now. Gutted and completely useless.
In my past life, this place had been a legend. People had died trying to find it. And now it was mine.
I pulled the door open, stepped outside, and slid the bolt back into place.
The guards were still on the far side of the building. I could hear their voices, low and casual, drifting through the night air.
I looked back at the warehouse one more time.
"Thanks for the memories."
Then I turned and walked away into the dark.